Friends
by Quiet2885
Summary: Four months after the horror, Christine returns. Kind of. Short modern holiday AU phic. Lots of angsty E/Cness with a cup of fluff and a teaspoon of humor. Complete!
1. Chapter 1

I was feeling a little disconnected from writing SCI and needed a break. I've had this short story in my head for a while and wanted to write it out. I gave it a slight holiday theme.

 **PLEASE READ FOR CONTEXT:** So this phic takes place after a modern (unwritten) POTO AU. I'll give hints to some of the events and you can fill in the blanks in your own mind, but imagine it as your typical modern POTO story with the major plot points left intact. At the end, Erik let Christine go, and she leaves with Raoul. This is my little take on a "Christine comes back" phic. Just some good old-fashioned angsty fluffy E/C goodness. Enjoy! Happy Holidays!

 **Read and Review!**

It had been three months. Four?

Five?

Since he had seen her.

He thought. He was not sure, as time was no longer linear nor relevant.

He did not know why he was still alive. He did not attempt to actively remain that way. Eventually, his body always went on autopilot and kept itself alive. He would find a stale piece of bread in his hand or a lukewarm glass of water on the table beside him. He did not remember retrieving them. His body was very cruel.

Admittedly, he had not taken direct action to end his life either. The thought stayed at the back of his mind, an emergency escape plan if the endless days became too much. For now, he drifted in and out of consciousness and dreams. Occasionally, he would find the energy to glance at an old composition. All of the recent ones had been about her, though. He quickly tossed them aside. Memories of fearful blue eyes, long dark lashes, and a gentle smile tortured him in the most agonizing of ways.

He did not know what time of day it was when he stumbled out of his sheet-draped coffin, wandering out of the dark back room. Judging by the sounds of the subways that rumbled above, it was likely early evening. After glancing at his phone, he noted that it was mid-April. Foul sunny April. And four months since he had last seen her. Four months since he had placed an iron device with sharp spikes around Chagny's neck, complete with a digital countdown device.

 _He_ had told her that she had ten minutes to make her decision before the homemade contraption would snap that handsome blonde head right off. _"Look, Christine. For Christmas, I have made you a nutcracker!"_

That had not gone well. Or entirely made sense, in retrospect. Utter madness had obviously turned him into a terrible comedian.

Her face had collapsed with horror upon seeing Chagny in the device. Then her expression had strengthened with resolve. As he had stared at her with simultaneous fury and terror, she had kissed _him._ Twice.

And that had been the end of it all. Four months ago.

That April evening, he was not wearing his mask. Why would he? No one would ever come down here again. Perhaps some city maintenance worker would eventually come across his skeleton.

He walked forward, feet dragging against the cold floors, shoulders slouched.

" _Achoo!"_

Someone, who was not him, sneezed.

In his living room.

He had thought that he heard the bell minutes earlier, signaling someone coming inside his home. He had told himself that he was hallucinating.

Apparently, he did have some sense of self-preservation.

He snatched the deadly piece of catgut from his pocket and approached the intruder. Had an old adversary finally found him? It has been over ten years since he had worked for anyone. Who would be idiotic enough to stand in his living room, sneeze, and wait to die?

He nearly leapt forward for the kill. Then his mouth fell open, and his heart plunged. A skinny leg in jeans. A strand of blonde hair. She held one of his books in her hands and was looking from side to side. She had not seen him yet.

He had never expected to see her again. He had vowed never to stalk or track her, never to check upon her or to try to catch a glimpse of her. That was not only for her clear benefit. There were certain events that he did not want to see or know about, for his own sanity. Her wedding, for one. She had been engaged to the boy, and he suspected that they were married by now. Indeed, he could see a gold wedding band on her finger, a simpler one than _he_ had expected Chagny to purchase. He felt both physically ill and ecstatic.

He grabbed his mask and hid the noose. He rounded his shoulders, attempting to keep at least a shred of dignity. He kept his gaze slightly to the side of her as he entered. She stared up at him and took a step backward. He kept his distance. He curled his hands into fists so that they did not tremble.

"Erik," she said, a quiver in her voice.

"Christine." He felt as though this were a dream. Perhaps he had finally lost his mind - or rather, lost his mind a second time - and was imagining this encounter.

"I still had the key," she quickly explained. "And you had that book down here with all the composers and their works. And I wanted it for a class. Could…could I borrow it?" She blinked up at him.

His sick, starved brain had only one train of thought. If she borrowed it, then she would have to return it.

"Of course," he replied. "Of course you may borrow it. You may borrow anything you like."

"Thank you." She tucked the book under her arm. She swallowed and softly asked, "How are you?"

"Fine," he easily lied. "The same as always. Nothing has changed."

"Oh." She looked him up and down. "I hope you're eating." He did not respond. His nutrition was not her concern. "Well, I guess I'd better go. Thank you so much for the book."

"Of course."

He was hypnotized as he watched her leave. She wore a lavender sweater and jeans with black boots that came up to the middle of her calves. Her hair was in a neat ponytail. Silver hoops hung from her ears, likely gifts from the boy. She walked away at a fast pace, only glancing once behind her, probably to see if he was following. He wasn't. She shut the door behind her.

Silence.

It was as though she had never been there at all.

Had that been real? He looked at his bookshelves and saw a large gap.

 _Why?_

 _It did not matter. All that mattered was that he had seen her once more. And perhaps he would see her again._

After that, he did what any obsessive nightmare of a man would have done. He refused to leave the living area so that he did not miss her returning the book. If this was the last time that he would ever see her, at least he would have that memory.

The days crept by, and he feared she would never come back. Which meant she had stolen his book – but he certainly did not give a damn about that. Still, he did not leave his living area, save for physiologically necessary reasons. If he died here waiting for her, that was perfectly fine. An excellent way to die, actually.

But, in a week, he heard the door softly close and open. The little bell jingled. He abruptly stood. And there she was, holding the book.

"Hi," she said, stopping in her tracks, obviously surprised to see him so suddenly. "Sorry it took so long. That paper was crazy. I stayed up two nights writing it."

"That is unhealthy," replied the freak who had stayed up seven nights in a row dare he sleep through her arrival.

"I know." She slowly held the book out to him. He took it, staring at her fingers, at that damned ring. He looked away from it, back at her face, trying to memorize her.

She slowly turned away and looked back at his library.

"Do you wish to borrow something else?" he asked. He couldn't even contain the pathetic hopefulness in his voice.

"Hm." She stood there, gazing over each book. "Not right now, I guess."

"Oh. That is fine."

Each second that passed was another that he had her there. He clung to them, one by one.

Finally, she turned to face him again. She glanced down at her boots, the same ones she had worn last time, and then back up. "Erik?"

"Yes?"

Her next question was horrible and wonderful. "Could we be friends again?"

He did not think that he had heard her correctly. "Pardon?"

She inhaled and said more loudly, "Can we be friends again? I m-miss…all our interesting conversations. You always knew so much about everything. More than anyone else. Other people can be kind of boring. And music, I miss that. Would you be my friend? Could you…" Her eyes held sadness. "Actually, would you even want that? It's up to you. I know…" Her voice trailed off. "Well, it's up to you."

He stood there like a moron for another five seconds.

 _Of course_ he did not want to be her friend. He never had and never would.

And yet – perhaps it was better than never seeing her again. Of course it was. It was a reason to live, if she remained in his life. It was something. It was not nothing.

"Yes." His voice was nearly a whisper. "If you like."

She nodded. Her shoulders had been tense, and now they slouched. "Good." She backed up a step. Was she afraid that he was going to keep her here? He wanted to, of course. But then he would never see her again. He sensed her judging him, studying his movements, trying to read his thoughts. She would certainly run if he could see how infatuated with her he still was. But he was talented at maintaining an outward appearance of control. He was not the complete madman that he had been in December, his thoughts a racing, raging mess. "Well, I guess I'd better go. I'll see you soon."

He let her leave without a word. He managed not to humiliate himself. Yet he did feel brief anger. Was she merely using him to make up for whatever she lacked in her new glamorous suburban life, lack of intellectual stimulation or artistic expression? What game was she playing?

And yet there was a part of him that that did not care if she was using him. Let her visit for whatever reason she wanted. Let her make a fool of _him._ At least she was also making a fool of Chagny. The boy certainly would not approve of these visits.

He fell back into the armchair. Every thought soon faded except for -

 _Come back._


	2. Chapter 2

Wait – what? You mean Christine could have gone to a library to find that book? She didn't have to go to Erik's to get it? Well, I'll just have to redo the last chapter and call the story: "Christine Goes to the Library and Nothing Eventful Happens." ;)

Thanks to everyone who reviewed. I'm glad so many of you had fun with the morbid nutcracker part. This story is meant to be fun, along with the angst. There are some heavier parts, especially toward the end, but I don't want it to be a downer.

 **Read and Review!**

The days crept by once more, into dreadfully green and wet May, when his underground home developed a slightly damp smell. _He_ did not see her for an entire week and miserably wondered if she had changed her mind. Until he heard the bell and the door opening on a Friday evening. His decomposing heart felt instant relief.

"Hi." She poked her head into the room with a small smile. "Is now a good time to visit?"

 _Oh, no, darling. I have not been waiting for you all week, clutching onto that pink shirt you left here months ago. I have so many important events occurring in my life, so many other things to look forward to - parties, sporting events, and…whatever the hell the young people do these days. Orgies? So many of those to attend._ "Of course. Come in."

She had her backpack. "I thought I could study, too. It's quiet down here. I have three exams next week."

Did that mean Chagny's house was not quiet? Was his idiot elder brother coming over and throwing his infamous two-hundred-people parties/orgies?

"Yes, study," he stated. "Whatever you like."

"Thanks." She slid her backpack off and put it beside the couch. She took a seat and looked up at him. An awkward silence passed. "Is...is that my shirt?" she asked, noticing it on the arm of his large black armchair.

"Hm? Oh. Yes. I have barely noticed it. I suppose you left it here long ago." A pause. "I think there is a hole in it, so you will not want it back."

"Oh. Hm." She crossed her legs. "I've started singing again," she hesitantly continued. "I took off for a little while. But I really missed it."

"That is wonderful," he replied and meant it with a genuineness that was uncharacteristic of him.

"Yep. I'll let you know if I need any practice. I probably will." She unzipped her backpack and pulled out a red notebook. She flipped it to the middle. She opened her textbook. She looked back and forth between the two. She gazed up at him. "You don't have to stay in this room if you have better things to do. I'm happy just being here."

 _Better things to do? Hahahaha._

He cleared his throat. "I acquired food. For you, I mean. Cookies. With chocolate and vanilla frosting. You like those, yes?"

"Yeah. Thanks!" She tilted her head. "Do you like cookies?"

"Not especially."

"What food do you like?"

He shrugged. "I only use food for sustenance. Whatever is nearby is acceptable."

She tilted her head. "You must like something."

"I cannot taste very well," he admitted. "Eating is not all that pleasurable."

"Oh. I'm sorry."

"Don't be." A pause. "I suppose dark chocolate is enjoyable."

Her eyes widened. "I like dark chocolate, too." She shook her head. "There's a lot I don't know about you. When we first met, before you even let me see you, all we talked about was my life. And then…well…"

And then all they had discussed was why she was not allowed to leave his underground home for two weeks and why Chagny was a terrible, horrible choice for her. He tensed as memories of her begging to leave returned to him, right after he had brought her here. " _You kidnapped me!_ _I thought you were my friend! I trusted you! Are you going to kill me?_ _Why do you keep asking about my boyfriend? Why do you care? I don't understand what's happening, Erik!"_

The franticness of that time contrasted sharply with the calmness of the present moment. She was now doing her homework, her forehead creased as pencil scratched against paper. Twenty minutes went by. He pretended not to be watching her by flipping through a book of his compositions. "I hate science electives," she muttered. "I saved them until last. I'm regretting that now."

He glanced up with interest. "What science?"

"Chemistry. It's not even supposed to be a hard chemistry class. But this is not clicking."

"Do you want help?" _Oh, please want help. I know everything about chemicals! I know how to make them do…things that I will never, ever tell you about, Angel._

She laughed. "Yeah. I do."

He reached for the book, his long arm bridging the distance between them. She gave it to him. And that was how they spent the evening, learning the equation for the dissolution of sodium sulfide. The minutes passed quickly. He had something to focus on, and so his thoughts did not go too haywire. At some points, he was mere inches away from her and felt his death's skin tingle. He noticed how her unbound hair framed her cheeks. And how her nose crinkled when she was confused.

And still that cheap ring mocked him.

 _He_ had received two kisses from her that violent night. How many kisses had Chagny received by now?

He physically pulled back. She noticed, looking up. "Well, I guess I'd better get going." She closed the book. "Thanks so much for your help."

He could not resist - "I suppose Chagny is not very good at chemistry?" She looked visibly distressed, and he instantly regretted saying it.

"I'll see you later, Erik."

"Goodnight, Christine."

After she was gone, he immediately bought more cookies. He had a flesh-like mask that he used for the store and other outings into public spaces, only going late at night, much to the horror of several younger cashiers. In the past, he had sometimes said 'to hell with it' and just stolen what he needed. But now it felt as though Christine were watching his every move as opposed to vice versa.

He also tried to make his home look like less of a tomb, as he'd done when he had first brought her there. He added some watercolor paintings of the city in winter. He placed flowers around the house, including a vase of roses on the coffee table and sunflowers on the kitchen table. He put out a box of assorted chocolates for her pleasure. Anything to get her to come as often as possible. He was certainly not above bribing her.

She returned several days later with her homework again, plopping down on the couch and looking around. He thought she would say something about his home improvement efforts. Instead she stated, "This would be a good place to be in a nuclear war. If one happens, can I come down here?"

Perhaps she was watching too much news. He chuckled. "If there is a nuclear war, we will make our own country here. We will call it Christinestan." She giggled loudly and covered her mouth. "And with the physical damage that the radiation will do to bodies, perhaps I will not even be considered a freak any longer. Everyone will look like Erik!"

"Erik!" She shook her head. Still, she was smiling. Apparently, she was only offended when he joked about the boy.

Likely because he had nearly made the boy's head explode.

Must she hold that against _him_ forever?

This pattern of visitation continued for several weeks, into June. She had decided to take a summer class. If she requested help with her homework, he gave it to her. Otherwise, they would sit in the quiet, occasionally chatting about inoffensive topics like the news or the weather or…why her laundry detergent made her skin itchy. This progressed to her coming in and telling him about her day. Enraptured, he clung to every word. He had desperately missed these conversations, and she was so very animated. She would tell him about a professor who came to class drunk. Or the girl who kept cheating off her during exams, using a makeup mirror. Or how her friend, Megan, had invited her on a fall trip to California. "Have you been there, Erik?"

"Yes. Los Angeles and San Francisco. They gave me a terrible headache. And the traffic made _me_ want to set off a nuclear weapon simply to clear the highway." A pause. "But perhaps you will enjoy it. You do love the sunshine." He sighed wistfully. "And the daytime."

"I like the day and the night," she gently corrected. "The night is cozy and mysterious."

Upon hearing this, he nearly fell apart. And it took all his sanity and self-control to keep it together.

One evening, she came and asked him to help with her singing again. He could barely contain his excitement. With the piano playing and her voice ringing out into the air, he could almost forget that she was married. He could pretend as though the disaster had never happened. He could pretend as though Chagny had never entered the picture and blackened it.

After their lesson, she said, "I don't know what I'm going to do after I graduate. Maybe go audition on Broadway?"

At first, he cringed at how much he would miss her if she went to New York. But he quickly realized that someone else would certainly miss her, too. "Would your husband follow you there?"

She twitched and blinked two times. "Oh. Um. He said he'd support me no matter what. I'm sure he'd come."

This was not the first time that something about her tone indicated all was not quite right. But what? Was she unhappy with her new life? Did Chagny not support her aspirations? He quashed the diabolical voice in his head that urged him to follow her and discover these truths. "You should audition," he said. "I am sure you would receive many roles."

"I don't know about that. It'd be fun to live there even if I didn't get any parts." She frowned. "New York City is expensive, though."

"Chagny could afford ten Manhattan apartments. Why worry about that?"

"Erik…"

"Fine, fine. I will not speak of him. But you are worrying over money, and that makes little sense under your circumstances."

"Could we just keep singing?" she pled.

"Yes. Of course." A pause. "One question, and then I will never speak of him again. I promise. Does he know you come here?"

"Of course not!"

"Where does he think you are?"

"Rehearsals. Seeing friends. School. Studying. Anywhere but here."

"Well, I hope he never figures it out. I would hate to have the FBI down here. I mean, there would be a bit of fun in it. But not your kind of fun." The kind of fun that would require a lot of clean-up afterwards, including a comprehensive carpet shampooing.

"Erik. He won't do that. We're safe. I promise."

He kept his word and did not insult the boy again.

Even when Chagny did not attend her vocal performance in September. She sang two songs at a university concert, accompanied by a piano and violins, and Chagny was not present. She had invited _him,_ though.

Which was a delightful surprise.

Considering that -

Last November, he had beaten one of the theater program's directors, a professor, within an inch of his life after the fool had not cast Christine in the starring role of a college production of "Snow White." _He_ had needed Christine to have that role. It was supposed to be a gift to her. So when that idiot had not given her the role, justice had to be doled out.

After walloping the man thoroughly, _he_ had strung him up by the arms and neck in a lecture hall, making sure the professor had enough air to gasp but not enough to speak or to scream. The unpleasant sight of the black and blue twitching marionette was the first thing that the students saw the next morning, and it had caused quite a panic.

Christine had somehow known it was _his_ doing.

And then everything had spiraled downward. She had run to Chagny in terror and also told the boy the story of her 'kidnapping' – which _he_ preferred to think of as an extended visit, complete with a wholesome breakfast and clean linens.

She had then disappeared with Chagny. _He_ had considered pursuing them immediately but ultimately chosen to give her a week to return, hoping that she would calm down and come to her senses – realize that he had done all this _for_ her.

It had been a mistake to let them leave.

She had returned engaged.

And now she was married.

And _he_ was still her loyal dog. He would attend any performance than she asked him to. He would do anything for her.

Her voice was, of course, lovely that night. It had only deteriorated slightly from disuse, but he had been able to quickly restore it to its former glory. She earned a standing ovation, and he felt great pride in her. She had accomplished this all on her own and with none of his darker machinations. He was also very pleased when they announced her as Christine _Daae._ She had kept her last name, at least for performing purposes.

At the end, he came backstage to see her. She was already out of her sparkling blue dress and back into jeans. She looked up in surprise, then smiled. "I'm glad you came. I couldn't see you."

"I made myself inconspicuous. I doubt they would want to see me here unless the security guards need target practice. I noticed that they hired more of them."

Her smile faded. "I guess that's smart." A pause. "Raoul is on a business trip. That's why he isn't here."

"I did not ask, did I?"

"No. Thank you."

 _He_ did feel a sting of resentment. Why must Chagny have so much of her while _he_ was the one who was present tonight, celebrating her glory?

The feeling vanished when she suddenly gave him a hug, directly around his narrow waist. Instant warmth engulfed his flesh and bones. "Thanks for coming, Erik. It really means a lot." Her voice was a little hoarse. Stunned, he stiffly wrapped his right arm around her, his trembling hand lightly touching the back of her head. He curled his fingers slightly to feel the softness of her hair, a lump forming in his throat. She held on longer than he expected. His heart clenched with a pleasant sort of pain. When she released him and bid him goodnight, he felt the cold return to his body. That was the physically closest he had been to her since the two kisses...

He remembered why he had let her go. And now...

 _It was better to have a small piece of her than to have none of her._

 _It was better to have a little of her in joy than all of her in hatred._

 _Even in mere friendship, she gave him a reason to live._

Undeniable yet cruel truths.


	3. Chapter 3

Longer chapter here. Many of you have figured out the truth, but hopefully it'll still be a fun ride. And it looks like the total chapter count is going to be 5. The one after this will be the heaviest/darkest of the story. Thank you all for your support.

 **Read and Review!**

For a little while, nothing changed. Homework. Singing. Conversations of a more pleasant nature. Smiles - from her. When he smiled, he resembled a rotting squashed jack-o'-lantern – or so a 'caretaker' at the orphanage had told him long ago. So he repressed the reflex as often as possible, even while wearing the mask. There was no need for him to look even more disgusting.

On the days that she did not visit, he would still wait for her. Every minute felt like an hour. Sometimes he gave up on living and curled up in the coffin with her shirt. He would bury his face into it, trying to detect her fading smell.

Would she be alarmed if he rubbed the shirt against her the next time she came, to collect a bit of her scent?

Yes. Yes, that would probably alarm her. He was slowly picking up on appropriate social cues. He was officially off the city's "Ten Most Wanted Persons" list, so that was a definite achievement.

When she was near, there was life in his tomb. He was happy to be alive, excited to hear whatever she had to tell him, and eager to help with any questions. His main qualm with friendship was that he was not permitted to see her every day. Even when he had attempted to… _persuade_ her into marrying him, he had never expected physical affection. He would not inflict such horror upon her. He only required her company and conversation for survival.

"I got a C on a test!" she announced in early October, nearly stomping into his living room.

He had waited all day for her, and his ears perked up at the sound of her voice. "Oh? What subject?"

"Spanish. I knew I should have spent more time on conjugations, but I got so busy with other things that I didn't have time."

" _Te ayudar_ _é, mi hermosa flor._ _"_ She blinked at him. "I will help you."

"Oh." She laughed. "See? I'm so bad that I thought you said something about a flower." She suddenly noticed a lily that was wilting on the coffee table and gently touched the petal. "I should get some water for this one."

He started to stand, disgusted with himself for allowing Christine into a room with a wilted flower. What the hell was wrong with him? He was slacking! "Oh, do not worry about that. I will get water. I will fix it."

"No." She stood. "It's fine, Erik. You help me so much. I should do some things around here to help you. I really want to."

"You should not have to do anything," he weakly protested, casting a quick glare at the flower.

"But I want to. Let me help you out for once."

She looked so eager that he relented and sat. "If you really wish to."

"Great!" She gently squeezed his shoulder as she walked by, and he closed his eyes in bliss. She watered all the plants and flowers that he had collected for her delight. Then she dusted his shelves and figurines. Finally, she made him tea. And, while it was not very good tea, it was also the best tea he had ever had in his life. He kept telling her that she did not need to do anything else, but she kept saying, "I want to."

That was the first change that occurred. When she arrived, she liked to complete a few simple tasks around his home. She would hum a song as she worked. Whenever she walked by, he prayed that she would touch him. A pat on the hand or the shoulder.

Once, while she was filling the watering jug in the kitchen, he noticed some type of growth on the coffee table flowers. Mold, perhaps? Is that why they were wilting? He pulled out one of the lilies by the stem and angrily examined it from top to bottom. How dare this fungus invade Christine's flowers?

Out of nowhere, he felt a soft, warm pressure on the top of his head. He sharply glanced up. She was standing above him, her cheeks slightly red. It took him several seconds to understand. She had kissed him! His hair was so sparse that he had felt her lips against his skin. He choked.

She quickly explained, "You looked so cute over here playing with the flower."

He rapidly seesawed between being enraptured and being insulted. He was most certainly not cute, and he had seven billion witnesses to attest to this fact. But she had kissed him! She had kissed him! His lips moved, but no sound was coming out except pathetic gasps. Finally, he was able to force out a single word of justification – "Fungus!" He thrust the infected flower out toward her as evidence.

She gave him a startled look and then laughed. "Oh, Erik. I'm not even going to ask."

So, yes, there were small changes in their interactions, but not enough to signal that trouble was ahead. Perhaps it could have continued like this until he died. He had become quite good at being her friend. He adored every moment of it, even while desiring more.

But then it all began to unravel.

And it was not even really his fault this time.

The collapse started in late October. He actually enjoyed this time of year. He could venture out on Halloween night without a mask, and people would congratulate him on a superb makeup job. He remembered a mother with three children catching sight of him one year and saying, "Oh! Just look at you, Mr. Zombie. So scary! You did an awesome job with your face. It looks so real and gross. I almost want to throw up just looking at you. Did you do your own makeup? Could you do my kids' makeup next year? I'll pay you. What's your number?"

"My number is 1-800-I-Eat-Small-Children-With-Gravy," he had replied, before quickly walking away as her mouth fell open with slight horror.

A child's voice had called out behind him, "Mommy, does that scary man really eat children? Is he a _real_ zombie like the ones on television?"

In any case, October was a much better month than April or May.

She was completing her homework on his couch. He was actually working on a composition instead of only pretending to be doing so. Her frequent company had begun to heal the broken threads of creativity in his brain. Although he had no desire to compose any masterpieces about friendship, he did have an idea for a futuristic post-apocalyptic Persephone piece. _As the world crumbles to dust after nuclear chaos, the mutated Hades – King of the Underworld – sings a song of undying devotion…_

He looked up when Christine asked, "Do you think you'll live down here forever?"

He blinked in surprise. "That is likely. Why?"

"I was just wondering. If you'd ever consider living in a real house on the surface. And not in a…what is this?"

"A former storage area for subway maintenance equipment."

"Yeah. That."

"There is no reason for me to do so," he said. "I am content here. Why does it matter?"

She looked like she was going to say something else. Instead, she nodded and went back to her work. Her question had made him feel uneasy, as though there were an ulterior motive behind it. When he glanced at her about twenty minutes later, he started. She had fallen asleep on the couch. She had never done that before. He watched her for several minutes. She was on her stomach, and her face was turned toward him. Her cheeks were a little flushed. She was breathing quietly.

Of course, he wanted to keep her there very badly. What time was it? He checked his phone. Hell, it was nearly eleven! He had not even noticed. Usually, she kept track of the wretched time. Was Chagny calling the FBI over his missing wife? _Do I even have carpet shampoo? I wonder if that Amazon website can do an instant drone delivery yet?_

He stood and walked to stand beside her. "Christine," he said, loudly.

"M?" She grunted and raised her head, eyes half open.

"It is eleven."

"M." She put a hand against her forehead. "Oh. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to stay so long."

"You do not need to be sorry," he replied with a clenched jaw. "Perhaps you should call your husband and tell him you are sleeping over with one of your female acquaintances. How about that dancer friend? Mona? Maple? Megan?"

"Huh?" Her voice was still groggy. "I don't have – Oh. Um. Raoul won't care. He's away on business."

" _Again?"_ She glared at him. He had slipped on his promise to not speak negatively about the boy. But this really was ridiculous. "Fine. I will take you home safely."

" _No!"_ She awoke fully and hopped to her feet with wide eyes, reacting so intensely that even he flinched. "I don't want you to go to my house!"

"Fine," he said with slight coldness. "But I think the buses have stopped running. You will be lucky to catch the last one."

"Oh." She gazed around the room as though she would find her answer there. "I could get a cab or Uber."

"Yes, I will call-"

"Or maybe I could sleep on the couch, if that's okay?" She looked up at him.

Sometimes his thoughts were very juvenile – _This is_ _WONDERFUL!_

"Of course you may sleep here!" he announced with far too much enthusiasm. "I will find a toothbrush. And a washcloth. And floss. Do you like cinnamon floss? And I know you like to have a fan on while you sleep to block out noise. And an extra blanket because the fan makes you cold. Would you like to have your room instead of the sofa?" Her sad expression immediately caused him to add, "You do not have to. The sofa is fine. I will retrieve two blankets and a pillow."

He knew why she did not want to sleep in her old room. Because she had stayed in there for days, crying, and only coming out to beg him to release her. He felt a pang of guilt. Sometimes he wished that certain moments could be undone, erased. But they could not be.

She seemed content to sleep on the sofa. She snuggled down into the blankets and pressed her cheek into the pillow, falling asleep almost immediately. He, of course, did not sleep at all. He stayed at a safe distance and admired her neurotically. He wanted terribly to touch her, to run his bony fingers through her yellow hair, to press his face against her back and inhale her, but managed to refrain from doing so.

Christine left in the morning, after shyly thanking him for letting her stay - as though he had been inconvenienced instead of mesmerized all night. Once she was gone, he wondered why she did not want him to see her house? Did she fear that, once he knew the location of the home, he would harm Chagny? Or harm the mansion - set it on fire perhaps? Bulldoze it? Put a sinkhole under it? Infest it with bedbugs. Or rats? Or -

 _Ahem._ He pushed his thoughts back on track. What exactly was she worried about...or hiding? It would not be very hard to discover -

But he had vowed never to stalk her again, for everyone's sanity.

He managed to be good for one more week. And maybe there was also a part of him that did not want to know the truth. Perhaps the truth was dangerous to this strange and fragile relationship that had developed between them. Yes, it most certainly was.

But then she finally crossed a line, and there was no turning back.

It began as a normal evening. Christine requested help with her homework. She scooted over on the sofa, and he took a seat beside her, with her biology textbook half in his lap. Their arms nearly touched. He was aware of her warmth and the smell of coconut shampoo. "You seem to have grasped this fairly well," he said after explaining flowering plant reproduction, which was a much less awkward discussion than any other type of reproduction conversation. She hadn't asked any questions or scrunched up her lovely face in confusion. "You will do just fine. In fact, I do not think you need my help."

That was unfortunately becoming true with many things. She was a wonderful singer, and he only had small corrections to offer her. Her academics were going well. She had a B in Spanish and A's in everything else. He was becoming a bit terrified that she would not need him any longer. And then what hell would follow?

She slowly closed her book. She sighed. He started to stand.

"Erik."

He sat back down. "Yes?" She didn't say anything for several moments. "What do you need?" _Please need something._

She laid the book at her side and put her hands in her lap. She was slightly hunched over, and her gaze was focused on the carpet. "Are you okay with how everything is?"

"What?" Fear gripped him.

"Are you okay?" she repeated. "With me coming over all the time?"

"Of course. I am fine. I greatly enjoy these visits and wish to continue them." _If you stop visiting, I will die. Please…Please don't go forever. I have been good. I have tried so hard to be as you want._

"I like them, too," she murmured to his relief. She turned toward him, and he could not read her strange expression. She placed her left hand on his right shoulder. He was hypnotized until her right hand came up to his face, her fingers brushing against his mask. He leaned away. "Please," she whispered. "I just…I want to see you. I promise it'll be fine."

"It has never been fine before," he replied, every muscle in his body tightening. "It has never been fine…"

"It will be this time. Erik, I…I want to kiss you."

His thoughts blurred together, and he could no longer react. He did not move or say anything. He let her slip the mask from his face and felt cold air rush against his skin. She didn't flinch, only stared at him for several seconds and then scooted closer. She wrapped her left arm around his neck. She placed her right hand on his death's cheek. And she kissed him. It was not frantic like the other time. It did not taste like tears of sadness and of rage. This one was slow and gentle and warm. And she kept kissing him, in a way that he had only seen on park benches or on the backseats of subways or in movies, in a way that he had always longed for. She pressed closer to him. He started to try and return it…Until he finally remembered -

He was the one who pulled back and turned his head, looking away from her. "I do not understand," he weakly whispered. His hands were shaking. "There is no one here that you need to save from me this time."

She opened her eyes. Her mouth fell open, and her eyes widened. "I'm s-sorry," she stuttered. "I am so sorry."

That was the worst thing that she could have said to him. He recoiled and jumped to his feet. Vicious words hovered at the edge of his tongue. He wanted to tell her that she was cruel. Even crueler than he was, in some ways. She stood and reached out to him, but he quickly backed away from her.

Trapped within his anguish, he nearly told her that he hated her. But - she said it first.

"I…God." A very haunted look passed over her face. They had managed to avoid most discussions of the past and of the horror before – but he suddenly saw it all reflected in her blue eyes, like a blurry film. And then he saw tears. "Sometimes I hate myself!" she cried out. Christine turned and ran out of his home, leaving her backpack, papers, and books behind.

He didn't try to stop her. He didn't follow. His shoulders slouched as he stood in the middle of the empty living room. He was too wounded to even begin to dissect it all. Half of him was still very angry at her, for dangling such temptations in front of his face and then snatching them away.

And yet the other half held dim hope because she had done that of her own free will. She must have some affection for him, mustn't she? To do that? To kiss his ugly face? Wicked thoughts crept into his ugly head -

 _Divorce is very, very common. It would not be so difficult. There are no children involved. It would be simple. I would find a wonderful attorney._

And yet what if she did not want that? What the hell did she want? An affair? Didn't women usually have affairs with men who did not physically resemble cadavers?

And he knew deep within his miserable heart that he would give her that, too. Hell, he would be whatever she wanted him to be. She could strip him of all his dignity, and _he_ would grin pathetically and ask for another heaping serving of humiliation. His lips still tingled.

His head was a mess.

Years ago, during his adolescence, he had experimented with quite a few drugs, mostly to escape himself. There were also periods in his life when he fit the clinical description of an alcoholic. He had moved past those times, especially the former, but sometimes a drink was the only way to get through certain hellish moments.

There was a bar that he was occasionally fond of. It was very dark inside, and, aside from the waiter who took his drink order, no one ever noticed him or cared about him. The flesh-colored mask had a flap that allowed him to drink (although still uncomfortably) without exposing his face. He always chose a quiet booth near the back, and he would sit and stare at people. People with friends and lovers and lives. People who didn't look like corpses. People who hadn't committed murder. People who weren't him.

He went there that night. He did not want to be alone with himself.

The bar was designed for the upper class, one of the most expensive in town, with marble tables and a strict dress code. Local politicians, attorneys, and businessmen would gather there and share their stories of success. Or make underhanded deals. Years ago, he had made some good extortion money after overhearing these conversations. _"Oh! So the mayor does not want the media to know that three percent of the city's budget went to Emily's Exciting Escort Services? Well, let's talk then."_

Of all the people who had to show up that night, sliding into a booth right behind him, it had to be Phillip Chagny. The elder Chagny looked a lot like his brother, except that he was taller and broader. He and three of his friends were sitting there with cocktails. They talked of dull matters. Work. Sports. Designer underwear. Why the Mercedes-Benz brand was no longer as good as it used to be.

 _Shoot me._ And yet _he_ stayed because he wanted information. Perhaps he could eventually corner Phillip Chagny and calmly inquire into how his younger brother's marriage was faring, pretend to be an old friend of the family. Phillip had so many acquaintances that he would not know the difference.

Then a girl arrived, a conventionally beautiful brunette. "Hi, Babe!" Phillip greeted her. He said goodbye to his friends, and the three other men departed. He heard the lovers scoot closer to each other in the booth.

The girl started talking about her nose job – _Shoot me._

The one time he had attempted a facial operation, back in the early 90's, he had wound up with a horrible infection that had only made his appearance worse. He knew that surgical techniques had improved significantly since then but had little desire to try again, particularly because the procedure would likely require transplanting new skin onto his face. Unless, of course, Christine demanded it.

The conversation turned toward the girl's latest clothing purchases. Handbags. High heels. Gloves. _He_ was bored out of his mind. On the other hand, if Christine had talked about these topics, _he_ would have found them to be the most fascinating things in the world.

Then the girl said, "I've got my dress for Mike and Tiffany's wedding. You're going to love it."

Phillip softly and slyly replied, "I'm sure I'm going to love you in that dress. And out of it."

 _He_ rolled his eyes, admittedly more jealous than disgusted. Who knew that forty-five years of utter celibacy would make him so very bitter?

"Is that all you ever think about?" she retorted. "I'm just glad for an excuse to get glammed up. I was all ready to go to your brother's wedding. I spent a fortune on a dress for that. And then I didn't even get to wear it!"

Phillip laughed. "Why don't you wear that dress to Mike's wedding?"

She scoffed. " _That_ was a winter dress. It's fall."

"There's a difference?"

"The colors are completely different!"

"Well, I'm sorry you didn't get to wear the winter dress, Babe. I am _not_ sorry that my brother didn't marry that ditz."

She giggled. "Aw. I only met her once, and she seemed shy. Do they still see each other at all?"

"God, no. That train wreck of a relationship ended a long time ago, like at the beginning of the year. Christine ended it. At least she had sense enough to do that." Phillip sighed. "My little bro dodged a bullet. I hope he gets his head on straight."

"Ooh! I should set him up with my cousin, Vanessa. They're about the same age. She's really into yoga. Does Raoul like hot yoga? Here. Let me find the number in my phone…"

 _He_ didn't even hear the conversation after that.

The news should have made him happy.

And yet he was far too lost, confused, angry, and alone to even be close to it.


	4. Chapter 4

**So I apparently cannot accurately count how many chapters there are going to be :P Chapter 4 got too long so I split it up. I'll have Chapter 5 posted soon, hopefully. And Chapter 6 up in a couple of days. Argh.**

 **Thanks again to everyone for their kind comments. I'm so glad everyone is having fun with this story. These next two chapters are a little darker and a little less funny. But hopefully still enjoyable.**

 **Read and Review!**

 _Why?_

Every one of his muscles had tightened. His throat was so constricted that he could not breathe through his mouth. Somehow, he escaped the bar without breaking any glasses. He did not escape without elbowing Phillip Chagny in the back of the head.

"Ow! What the hell?"

No one was permitted to call Christine a ditz without at least one repercussion.

 _He_ moved through the crowds of people at the doorway who smelled of perfume and alcohol. He made it outside and staggered down the street.

He prepared to seek her out at that very instant using whatever means necessary, to demand answers. She was the one who had returned to his life and lied to him for months. Didn't she deserve his anger? Didn't he deserve an explanation? Demons hopped around in his mind, taunting him, telling him how vile and disgusting he was, ordering him to take her back as that was the only way he would ever have her.

And then he could hear his own voice screaming at her from that last hellish day – _"I did everything for you, Christine! Everything! And still you seek him out. Look at him! What does he have besides a pretty face?! I have money. I have power! I can obtain more of both, if that is what pleases you, Angel. What does he have that I do not?!"_

" _He doesn't kill people! He doesn't act like this! That's what he has! Stop it, Erik! Stop it!"_

He stopped walking so quickly that someone bumped into him from behind, a woman. "Oof!" she exclaimed. "Oh, sorry about that. Excuse me."

"Don't mind me," he muttered as she passed. "I am simply deciding how crazy to go. Do you have an opinion on the matter?" She did not hear him, which was probably for the better.

No, he could not see Christine while in this state of mind. He could not stalk her, pound on her front door, and scream. He already knew exactly what that would result in. And he had something to lose. He had his friend. She had lied to him. But she had also not married the boy. And she had stayed in _his_ life over the past year. She had made him so very happy. Until now.

It was nearing the weekend. Christine always came on the weekends. He would wait for her, like a spider in a web. He would have more leverage, if she were the one who returned to him. And if she did not show up, he would make a new plan – which might entail pounding on her door like a madman. Or, depending on his mood, gently knocking like one of those little girls who sold cookies.

He went home and crawled back into his hole. Over the next few days, as he curled up in the coffin, all he could think about was – _Why?_

And - _What if she never returned? What if she had found the kiss to be revolting and never came back? Is that why she had apologized for kissing him? Because it was disgusting? Who would want to kiss a corpse? Well, there were unusual fetishes, but he did not think that Christine possessed them…_

Before he could completely fall apart, the little bell rang on Saturday evening. He was ready for her, waiting in the living area as though all were perfectly normal. Her belongings were still on the floor and sofa. He sat in the armchair, arms resting out at his sides, like a king on a black throne.

"Good evening, Christine," he greeted.

"Hi," she said, softly. She seemed timid. There was a blush in her cheeks as she sat on the couch. He waiting for her to say something regarding their last meeting, perhaps offer another apology for kissing his ugly face. To his relief, she didn't. "It's cold out there." She shivered.

"Is it?" Chagny was no longer off limits. And while he was not going to rage at her, he didn't have it in him to be completely nice either. "Well, I am sure you are warm in the boy's mansion. There must be many fireplaces. How many stories is his home? At least three, right?"

Her smile vanished. "Erik," she said with a warning tone.

"You misunderstand, my dear. I do not speak of him with cruelty. I am not mocking him. If we are going to be _friends_ , I simply want to know more about your life. Friends tell each other about their lives, don't they?"

Her eyes flashed with anger. "I don't know much about your life."

"Fine." He leaned back in the chair and crossed his arms. "Ask away."

She was obviously taken off guard. It took her a moment to ask, "What…what work did you do before meeting me?"

"I have lived off savings for some time. But, before that, I worked my way into dubious business dealings, agreeing to stay quiet if the participants paid me a hefty sum." She looked disappointed in him. "My turn. What was your wedding like? Tell me all the wonderful details."

She grimaced. "Erik, you don't really want to know about that."

"But I really, really do," he insisted. "I will not say one negative word about it. I want to hear about your happy day."

She immediately began to squirm. "It was outdoors. In the, uh, woods. Um, there were snowflake decorations. Bells and ribbons. That kind of thing."

"That sounds gorgeous! A winter wonderland. What was your dress like?"

"Um. Long and with straps and-"

"Straps? You must have been very, very cold outdoors in the woods. I hope you had something to cover your shoulders with."

"I did. I had a wrap." She straightened. "My turn. Where were you born?"

"Serbia. Belgrade."

"Really? You don't have an accent."

"I have been in the United States for over twenty years. As hardly anyone spoke to me in the orphanage, their language was not cemented in my mind." He continued before she had time to pity him. "Where did you go for your honeymoon?"

"The Bahamas." She could not look him in the eye.

"Ah. The Bahamas! A tropical paradise. Did you try to learn the language before going?"

"Yes." Her eyes darted from side to side.

"So you were able to practice your Spanish?" he asked, going in for the figurative kill.

"Yes."

"Ah. Yes, everyone speaks Spanish there, so there was no choice but to learn?"

"Yes," she whispered. "Exactly. Everybody did."

 _Silence._

"Christine?"

"Yes?"

He slowly leaned forward. In a low voice, he stated, "The official language of the Bahamas is not Spanish. In fact, their language is English-based."

"Well, I…I…there were still some people who spoke Spanish."

"Were there?" He closed his eyes. _Oh, my dear. Please cease with this game. Erik is going to lose his mind_.

"Yes! My turn," she began.

" _No!_ It is not your turn." He stood and loomed over. He had given her many chances to come clean. "Because everything that I have told you is the truth. But you are lying! Why?!"

She drew back and stared up at him. "I'm sorry," she said, shaking her head. "I…I can't talk about this right now. Can't we just…" She held out her hands. "Can't we go back to normal?"

"Normal?" he snapped. "Oh, Darling, you _are_ in the wrong place if you are looking for normal."

"I took a job at a skating rink," she began, desperately trying to tell him about her day. "I think it'll be fun. It's a really beautiful rink, and they decorate it for Christmas. There's a big tree in the center. And presents underneath." She forced a frantic smile. "It's very pretty! I can show you, Erik. We could go skating."

"Skating? Is that normal? I know very little about normal. But I do not think it involves wearing a pretend wedding ring and telling people that your husband is on a business trip. In fact, I think that sort of behavior might be a ticket into an institution." He looked at the ring. "How much was that? Thirty? Twenty? I should have known that Chagny would not be so damned cheap!"

Her eyes filled with tears. Her lip quivered. She had her arms drawn up against her chest as though she were trying to protect herself. He had her trapped.

And he had never wanted to trap her again. This was the same posture and stance that they had taken almost a year ago, her huddled below him as he raged at her. It did not feel very good. It felt…sick.

"I forgot how mean you could be," she murmured, looking down. She used her palm to wipe the tears out of her eyes. "This was one of my mother's rings."

"I have been nothing but good to you for months! At least I have tried to be, haven't I? I have done whatever you asked! You owe me an explanation!"

She was on her feet in an instant. "After all you did, I don't owe you anything!" she yelled with more anger than he had seen in her since…

Well, since that wretched day.

His heart sunk even lower.

He was going to lose his friend. And he didn't even understand how he had wound up here this time. He quickly backed away from her. He fell into the chair, retreating, hoping to somehow salvage…something, anything. "Fine," he said. She stared down at him. The anger faded from her features, leaving behind confusion. "We will keep doing this. We can do it forever. I will play along. You are Christine Chagny, married to Raoul Chagny. And I am the freak or friend, whatever you want, whom you visit every so often. Fine. Go on. Tell me about your day."

"I…" She sniffled and looked off to the side. "I should go," she said, to his utter dismay.

He bowed his head and said nothing. He heard her shuffling papers. The zipper of her backpack. The rustle of her jacket. Footsteps. The grunt of the door opening.

A long pause.

The squeak of it shutting. A click as it closed.

Silence.

He was so very glad that he waited a moment before dissolving into sobs. He was _thiiiiis_ close to completely losing it in the most mortifying of ways. He never would have lived it down. He would have worn a second mask over the first just to hide his shame.

Because she was suddenly walking back into his living room. He looked up at her through blurred eyes and the holes of his mask. He waited, his heart hammering in his ears, terrified of what she was going to say.

She stood in front of him, about two feet away, still wearing her backpack, her arms folded against her chest. She spoke, a tremble in her voice. "I'm not married. And I haven't ever been. So Raoul has never been on business trips. Or maybe he has, but I don't know about them. And - I didn't really need that book I borrowed. And I didn't have a honeymoon in the Bahamas. Obviously. And that's all I can really think of right now. Um." She looked to the side. "Yep. So that's it. I'm sorry I lied. But right now, I'm n-not sure I can explain." She wrung her hands together and then ran them up and down her arms, as though she were cold. She looked at him, into his eyes. "Erik, will you please say something?" she whispered.

He was frozen in the chair, his mind rapidly attempting to process and interpret all of this information. Of course it always came back to – "What do you want, Christine?"

"I want…" She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. She gazed around his home. Was she remembering the horror from a year ago? Or the most recent months, when she had at least appeared to be happy in the midst of all her fabrications? Finally, she glanced back at him. "Could you drive me home? I want to spend more time with you. But maybe somewhere else."

His anger was nearly gone, replaced with melancholy. And how could he be furious with her when she was standing there with her shoulders slouched and her cheeks tear-streaked, still looking so very lovely. "Of course I will drive you home," he said in a very dignified manner, still picturing his utter humiliation if she had walked in on him sobbing into her shirt. He then stood – also in a very dignified manner.

"Thank you." He received the hint of a relieved smile.

"What is your address?" he asked as they headed for the door.

"I think you already know it. I'm pretty sure you've been there before." She side-glanced him.

He understood.

She had never left her old apartment.

Once his anger diminished, he began to see everything, all their interactions, in an entirely different light. Was that what she had feared would happen?

He saw her confused expression in the streetlights, the tilt of her head and the pursing of her lips.

And, for a moment, he wished that he had never discovered the truth. Her lies had kept them safe.

But only for a moment.


	5. Chapter 5

**Thank you as always for the lovely comments. Some readers have favored Erik more and some have felt more sympathetic toward Christine. I hope this chapter does them both justice.**

 **Time for Christine's side of the story, which is a little sad. Hope you still enjoy the chapter ;(**

He owned a black car that he kept in a nearby garage. He led her to it as the cold wind blew against them, watching her from the corner of his eye. He held the car door open for her, and she climbed in after only a brief hesitation. He went to the driver's seat, started the engine, and pulled out of the parking space. They were soon on the quiet streets. It had been a long time since he had taken this drive, but he knew it well. Perhaps a little too well…

"Oh. There's going to be a Christmas tree festival," she said, glancing behind them. "Did you see that sign?"

"I missed it," he replied. "Do you think you will go?"

"Maybe," she said, settling back into the seat.

His mind automatically ticked to her going with the boy. He had a very vivid picture of them holding gloved hands and staring up at decorated branches. Then – _No, that is not right. She is still Christine Daae, isn't she?_ And he felt simultaneous joy and panic because he did not know what that meant.

They were soon on the poorer side of town near the university, featuring boarded up windows and graffiti. He had always worried about her living here, but she had certainly survived without his interference. He pulled up to several brick two-story apartment complexes that were not completely decrepit. There was a gas station on the nearby corner, its lights bright. The smell of exhaust was heavy in the air. A homeless man walked by, muttering to himself as he pushed a shopping cart full of plastic bags.

They stared forward together as her lie was clearly confirmed.

"I do not understand." He spoke slowly, the wheels in his mind turning as he attempted to make sense of it. "Had he broken it off with you, perhaps I would understand your discomfort. I certainly know the humiliation of rejection. But you left him. So why lie?"

She squinted and looked at him. "How do you know all of this?"

"Despite what you may be thinking, I did not follow you. Not once. I was at a bar the other night. His elder brother was there, talking with a girl about how there had been no wedding. All because of you."

"Oh." Christine sniffed. "I'm sure Phillip was sad about that."

"Was that the reason you left the boy? His family? I elbowed Phillip in the back of the head. Does that help?"

"Erik!" She laughed. "No. I mean, it didn't feel great that Phillip hated me. But we could have gotten past that. Raoul even said he would cut off contact with his family."

"Then why?"

She sighed and looked into the distance. "Will you come inside with me?"

"Of course!" He shivered with pleasure at the mere thought of it. He had been inside her home before. He had never been _invited_ inside, though, so this would be quite the treat. "But why?"

"I want to tell you everything. I feel better doing it here. Instead of down there."

"You are afraid of me?" he warily asked.

She tilted her head. "I'm…afraid of the you from a year ago. And he's in my story."

"Ah. Well, then. This story will be very fun indeed."

 _As fun as having fingers cut off with a hot knife that has been drenched in acid._

They both climbed out of the car and walked toward her building, side by side. They ascended the wooden steps to the second floor. She unlocked the door, opened it, and then held it for him.

He hesitated, staring at the apartment that he had occasionally crept into. With good reason! He had collected her possessions before taking her to his home, so that she would have some of her clothes, toiletries, and comforts.

He entered. The home smelled exactly like her, and he inhaled a deep breath of heaven. She led him to her round kitchen table that only had room for two chairs. There was a stack of DVDs on the coffee table and a few dishes in the sink. He noticed open utility bills on the table, next to a notepad. She had written a bunch of numbers, and he realized that she was carefully trying to make sure she had enough money to pay her bills. Barely enough, he calculated.

All this time, she had barely been surviving. But, at the end of it all, she did not need _him_ or Chagny to take care of her. He felt pride in her. His friend.

She disappeared for a moment and then returned holding a black shoe box. She smiled as she removed the lid. "Look," she said. He did and immediately recognized the contents. "All the things you gave me way back then." There were pressed purple flowers. A necklace with a gold music note at the end. An empty chocolate box.

"You kept them."

"Yep." She took a seat at the table. He also sat and waited. "This is all so hard to talk about," she began. "I've wanted to tell you this past month, especially the other night. But I worry that it won't come out right."

He softly replied, "However it comes out, I think it must come out now."

"I guess so." It took her a couple of moments to begin. And he was not too fond of the beginning. "I liked Raoul a lot. There were some things I loved about him. He wasn't smug like other guys my age can be. He didn't think drinking was the only way to spend a Friday night. But we also had very different interests and personalities. I recognized that pretty quickly. I would have ended it sooner, I think." She looked down. "But then we ended up having one important thing in common."

He tensed. "And what was that?"

"We were both scared of you."

"Oh." _That was a very depressing twist._

"For months, Erik, you were my best friend in the whole world. And then you, well, went crazy all because I decided to have dinner with Raoul one night. Do you know what we talked about during that dinner?"

"What?" He had seen them through the window of the restaurant but been unable to hear them. It had been raining, and he had watched them laughing and chatting and being happy and eating their stupid spaghetti – and his mind had begun to spin out of control. He had been so certain that he was going to lose everything.

"We talked about how Phillip hurt his ankle and lost his opportunity to be a quarterback. I mean, it was a sad story, but it was also really boring. All I thought about was how much more interesting you were to talk to. And then you…"

"Behaved rather poorly," he finished.

She took a shuddery breath. "Even after you kidnapped me, I wondered if our friendship could be salvaged. At first, I expected the worst. Do you know what goes through a girl's mind when she's been kidnapped? But - you never touched me. You acted like this really polite butler who abducted me so that he could feed me and read me stories. And sing to me." She chuckled. "I thought maybe you were so lonely because of your…your face that you didn't understand what you'd even done. So I didn't tell anyone at first."

"I would never hurt you." That was all he could say. He was not sure if he was going to survive this conversation.

"I know. But you did hurt someone else, all so I'd get a silly role in a play." He cringed but remained silent. "After that, I freaked out and told Raoul that we had to run away. Raoul took me to his family's cabin in the mountains. He said he'd marry me and always keep me safe. I was too sad and afraid to think straight, so I agreed to it. And I think Raoul was running from his own problems. His dad and brother put so much pressure on him to succeed, and I think Raoul liked the idea of marrying me and leading a simpler life. I guess we all have our issues." She looked at him _. He_ was frozen in the chair. She continued, "Anyway, when it was all over – after you let us go, I knew I couldn't marry Raoul out of fear. I was willing to date him and see if it worked out, but Raoul didn't want to tell his family that the wedding was canceled. We got in a big fight, and I knew it had to end. For his sake." She stopped here and looked to the side.

The silence was unbearable.

"So you have answered one question," he finally said. He desperately attempted to lighten the mood. "You have explained why you are not living in a mansion. I even pictured you owning ridiculous dogs. Poodles, perhaps? And possessing golden toilets. And singing as you showered in diamonds. I had this grand vision in my head for you, you know?"

She gave him a quizzical glance. "Showering in diamonds sounds like it would hurt. And how would you even get clean?"

"It should be obvious by now that very little in my head makes sense," he haughtily replied.

"Oh, Erik. You remind me all the time of why I couldn't...let go." She gave him a sad, half-smile. "Before Raoul, you and I were wonderful friends. I always looked forward to seeing you. You helped me with everything. You listened to me cry about my dad. You were so funny and intelligent. I'd never met anyone like you. You were a breath of fresh air when everyone else seemed ordinary."

"It is very nice to hear that I am fresh air," he murmured. _I always thought I smelled rather stale. And this conversation is going to give me a heart attack._

"And then everything spiraled into a nightmare, and I lost by best friend. All because you…" She swallowed. "You loved me. After you let us go, I was furious with you. But then I also started to miss you. A lot. I missed what we had together before all the bad things happened. I thought that if we could be friends, like before, maybe we could still see each other. Maybe I could keep you in my life. But how?" Her face lit up. "And then, one night while I was looking through some old jewelry, I saw that ring. My mother's ring. And it hit me! If you believed that I was married…"

He shifted. "Ah. Then I would know that I could not be with you as I wanted. And agree to merely be your friend. And then everything would be…calmer, I suppose." She swallowed and nodded. He shook his head, nearly amused, even as his heart ached. "That was quite the successful operation. I suppose I taught you something after all."

"You taught me a lot of things, Erik. First, I asked to borrow that book, no strings attached. And you just let me have it without asking any questions. I felt so relieved that day."

"Because I did not try to keep you?"

"That - and because you were still down there!" She grinned as fresh tears sprung into her eyes. "I was really afraid of what I might find. So when I saw you alive, it felt wonderful. I came back again and again. I always told myself that, if you ever started acting strangely, that would be the end. But you didn't." A pause. "For the most part. I'm still not sure why you screamed 'fungus' at me."

"I did not want to lose you again," he replied, looking into her shining eyes. "I could not lose you. Even if it was only your friendship - that was reason to keep living."

"I thought that you would figure out the truth a lot sooner, though. Outside of the ring and a couple lies, I didn't put much effort into making it seem real."

"Perhaps I did subconsciously start to suspect it," he finally admitted to both her and himself. "Not at first but as time passed. Yet I did not want to disturb the peace. And you were not afraid of me."

"Oh." She set her elbows on the table and put her chin in her hands. "Anyway, I'm the one who messed it up. After I kissed you the other night, I knew that I'd have to tell you the truth soon. It wasn't fair to you."

"You said that you were sorry," he grimly murmured.

Her eyes widened. "Erik." Then - she touched him. She reached across the table and took his hand. He grasped onto her hand tightly, the simple contact soothing the pain in his chest. She rubbed her warm thumb gently against his cold flesh. "I was sorry that I lied to you. I wasn't sorry that we kissed."

He felt a wave of tenderness at that confession, along with the words that she left unspoken. "You have utterly delighted me these past months," he told her, squeezing her hand. "I am not angry with you. I think that I understand."

 _And yet something was not quite right, something he could not yet pinpoint. What was it? What was the flaw in her beliefs?_

He desperately wished that the conversation could end right then. But he sensed, by looking at her face, that all was not well. He knew that they still had not reached the most painful part of her story. He braced himself as she continued.

"It has been wonderful, Erik. You've let me come and go as I please these past few months. You didn't follow me. Or threaten anyone. And you got better about the snide little comments. I've wanted to be near you. I count down the hours until I get to come see you. It is like it was before."

"Christine." Her name was a plea not to hurt him too much as the knife fell.

She gently withdrew her hand and put it in her lap. The disconnection felt like death to him. "Except it's not like before because I can't forget everything that happened. I saw someone die right in front of me." She stared forward with a distant look in her eyes, as though she were watching the scene unfold all over again. "I agreed to let Raoul bring us back here, knowing how dangerous it was. Someone died because we returned. Then Raoul almost died. I'll never forget seeing his face and head trapped in that…that hellish thing you made. When you loved me, people died. And I felt responsible!"

 _The nutcracker – once a piece of abstract yet functional art and now the bane of his existence!_ She had been so bright-eyed and happy these last few months. Yet these thoughts still haunted her. And now they were haunting him, too. The memories were wrapping around his neck and strangling him.

"You did not kill anyone," he insisted, his chest constricting. "You did not do any of that. I did. Of course I did!"

That evil night returned to his mind. A week before their wedding, _he_ had trapped them in an alleyway, his black car cornering them against a concrete wall. Their fearful faces were illuminated by his glaring headlights as they clung to each other. The boy yelled and cursed at him. She just screamed, " _Stop! Please stop, Erik!" He_ had been ready to put them both to sleep and take them back to his home, to use the boy as a bargaining chip for her hand in marriage.

Chagny's screaming had attracted the attention of bystanders and the law. In his insanity, _he_ had been very careless, and chaos had erupted. A police officer had pulled up, lights flashing, wondering what the commotion was about. _"Hands up! Hands up in the air!"_ A gun was drawn out. The officer fired at _him_. She screamed. The officer missed. _He_ was quick with the noose. The snap of a broken neck. She shrieked again. _He_ had carried out the rest of his plan, taking her and the boy back to his home for the final act.

And now she partially blamed herself for _his_ wretchedness.

He now felt physically ill, nauseated. On that terrible day, nearly one year ago, he had apologized to her. He had first taken a silver key and released the boy from the head contraption. _He_ had turned to her and said, with tears running down his horrible face - _"I am so very sorry, Christine. I am sorry. You are free now, see? See, your boy is just fine. He is fine now. I am so sorry."_ She had only stared at _him_ and cried as the boy frantically pulled her away from the horror.

But that had obviously not been enough.

Now he tried, "If you want money to leave this city, I will give that to you. Enough so that you can forget about all this and start over. Would you like that?"

She quickly shook her head. "I don't want to leave."

"Then what?" he frantically asked. "I cannot stand to see you suffer. Hell, I would rather see you happily married to Chagny than like this. I cannot bear it. I wanted you to be happy. I honestly did. What do you want?"

"I don't know," she said. "If I did, I wouldn't have made everything even more confusing by lying to you." She shook her head. "These last few months, I've gotten everything that I wanted. But how do I keep it?" She suddenly pulled off the ring and gently tossed it on the table. It shook, making a soft clinking sound against the wood, before coming to a rest. The metal glimmered. "How do we keep it?" she whispered.

They sat in the silence. The heater turned on and hummed. One of the lights flickered overhead. He desperately tried to think of something that could repair this. He could not think of anything.

But, as he looked at her gloomy expression, he finally realized what the flaw was. He saw where she was wrong. She thought that he had been good merely because there was a ring on her finger. But that was not the reason why. And perhaps it would not matter now, but he wanted to reassure her that -

"You said that, when I loved you, people died," he stated with a swallow. She looked up. "Did you think that I had stopped loving you merely because I agreed to be your friend? I still adore you, and no one has died for the past months. Whether you leave this city and start anew, or stay here, or remain my friend - I will still love you. But no one will die because of it. So you do not need to worry. About that now. I promise."

Her expression softened, and she slowly nodded. She seemed to understand.

Again, silence followed. Her forehead was scrunched up as she stared at the table. Her eyes were focused. She was thinking very hard. And he knew…

He knew that it was time for him to leave. Of course, he wanted to beg her to continue this second chance. He wanted his friend back, his only friend and his best friend. He wanted to wrap his arms around her legs and plead for her to let him have some place, any place, in her life. He would do anything even to see her once a year, once a decade.

Yet he held back. For her sake. It would only make things worse. And she…

She would have to come back one more time. To him. Without the protection of her lies or her ring. Without fear.

That was the only way it could be.

And might never be.

He slowly stood. The chair scratched against the linoleum. She looked up with wide eyes. Her mouth hung open. One of her hands was in the air, grasping onto nothing. She was crying again. He waited. But she didn't seem to know what she wanted to say. She did not know.

He finally said, "You are always welcome in my home at any time, Christine, if you wish to be there."

Her shoulders relaxed, and he saw relief in her tired face. "Thank you," she whispered.

He left. It was even colder outside. A wind was blowing, and flurries were falling from the sky. The first snow of the season.

He did weep that night.

But, this time, it was not only for himself.


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you for coming on this short journey with me. I hope you enjoyed it. In the meantime, I'm going to try to get back to SCI, as the Erik in that is definitely in need of some rescuing ;( Sometimes it is fun to write a more character-driven piece like "Friends" as opposed to the plot heavier pieces. I've loved all your reviews and insights into these beloved and complicated characters.**

 **Read and Review!**

What fate was worse?

Being miserable in his dark hole while believing she was out there in the sunshine, happy and full of life? Or being miserable in his dark hole and knowing that she was miserable, too?

His bitter and angry self from over a year ago might have said the former. Yet now he knew the latter was much more terrible. The guilt crushed him.

What if she spent the rest of her life crying in that drab apartment, until she was as lifeless and pale as he was? What if he died down here thinking that he had destroyed her?

He still wanted to fix it. But fractures of the mind are not easily fixed. His first memory was from the age of two, of being thrown against a wall because he would not stop crying. He remembered the crack of his skull hitting the plaster, followed by blinding pain that made the colors blend together.

He remembered, at twelve years old, being sold into black market slavery. He had been chained to a factory machine for sixteen hours a day, forced to make weapons. His hands had become scarred and calloused, and he was beaten if he worked too slowly. He had killed two men to escape, his first murders at age fifteen.

Those memories would never leave. They were him now, his building blocks.

And now he had given her a set of similar ones, to have forever. To be her.

For several days, he lay in the coffin, listening to the rumble of the subways, trapped with himself and these thoughts.

When he could not stand that any longer, he decided to walk. He walked aimlessly about the city in the evening, careful not to be seen. During the night of horror and chaos, he had been fortunate in that no one had gotten a good look at him. On the "Wanted" list, he was described as a sort of Person of Interest X who wore a mask. Still, _he_ kept a low profile, just in case anyone ever figured it out.

As he walked, he watched people. Old couples. Young children. Single businessmen looking at their phones. A young woman carrying shopping bags. He no longer hated them for what they had, but he also could not be them. He was still detached from their world. Christine had been his only way in.

Except – he had ended up pulling her halfway out instead.

He saw people around her age, around Chagny's age. Two girls and two boys, all in their early twenties, were sitting around a table at a café with their laptops out and coffee at their sides, perhaps completing homework. There was some candy in between them. He could hear their interactions.

"You ate the last Twizzler!" one of the girls exclaimed.

The boy held out a half-eaten piece of candy. "Here?"

"Ew! No. I'm taking your pen in revenge." She grabbed it.

They reminded him of her and Chagny - except that _he_ could see them as they really were, as opposed to a terrifying threat. They were merely young people with their entire lives in front of them. He still didn't understand their interactions. After all, when he had been their age, he was selling his knowledge of weapons in order to survive. Until those 'employers' had decided that he should give them that information for free. He had escaped before being enslaved a second time. Yet he did understand that the carefreeness of youth was something that she should have gotten to experience.

So he found no answers during his walks, only more regrets. The world continued as it always did, and he was on the outside of it. Too changed to be a monster. To isolated to feel human.

He stayed underground after that. While his bitterness had faded, he did not see a way out for himself. He had committed crimes that would easily earn him the death penalty or at least life in prison. Physically, he was terrifying, and parents reflexively shielded their children from him. He was awkward from lack of human interaction, lack of parenting. He had never met the normal milestones of life – childhood friendships, dating, college, the workforce – and so he had no shared human experiences. He didn't understand many social customs and cues. Christine had taught him some of these things. She had helped him gain a better understanding. But – he was still too lost to find his own way.

Some of this was his fault. Some of it was not. But they were still facts.

In a week, he was certain that she was gone forever. And he understood why.

There was too much to second guess and to regret. So he stopped thinking. He wrote a check for a hundred thousand dollars and anonymously donated it to a local children's music program, figuring that was one good that could come out of the horror that was his life. Then he lay there and just – hurt. He hurt. And he did not want to keep moving. His muscles felt heavy and tired.

Depression thankfully brought sleep. And sleep brought absence of self, as he was able to fade away for long periods of time. A day passed. Then another. Dreamless and painless sleep. He would sip water when he awoke to cure his parched throat. He would eat a cracker if his stomach ached. But that was all.

Then he did have a dream. He was standing in the middle of the city at night. There were no stars or moon. The streets were empty, and he was alone. A bell rang. A clock bell, perhaps? No, the sound was too soft for that. But he wished it would ring again because he had enjoyed the sound of it. It didn't. He kept walking.

And walking.

And walking.

And -

" _Erik?!"_ The cry shattered his dream.

With a gasp, he sat straight up, arms outstretched. She jumped. She…

Yes! _She!_ There she was, standing in front of the coffin, wearing a white sweater dress and grey leggings. A winter dress – as Phillip Chagny's female companion would have described it.

He could only stare at her. She stared back, her chest quickly moving up and down. He could not read her expression. He could not speak.

"You…you still sleep in that?" she shakily asked, one hand gripping her necklace. The music note necklace.

"I was simply napping," he coughed out, still in disbelief. He wanted to hit himself on the head to make certain that he was not dreaming. But she likely would have found that upsetting, if she were real. "Here. Here. Let me get up. And I will find my mask." It was lying beside the coffin, and he grabbed it from the floor. His legs were weak and unsteady. How long had it been since he had stood up? "Here. There." He quickly tied it on. "That is all better. It is all better now, yes? I simply…I was not expecting you." _Ever again._

She quietly watched him. And he felt so small as he stumbled around his house like an idiot. He was very aware that she might be here only to tell him goodbye. "Come," he said. "Let us leave here and go to the living area." She followed him. He made it into the room without collapsing. He turned toward her, arms limp at his sides, hands shaking. She stared up at him, hands clasped together.

"Will you…?" He trailed off, a lump in his throat. He could not ask. He could not survive the answer. "Will you tell me about your day?" he whispered, shoulders slouching.

A moment of silence.

She slowly smiled. She walked over and took both his hands. She led him to the sofa, and they sat down together. She took a deep breath. He braced himself. "So, like I said." Her voice began with a tremble but then grew in strength. "I decided to take a job at the skating rink. I love skating, and it's a beautiful place. But, Erik! On my first day there, this little boy threw up all over the ice. And then I went out there to try to keep the other kids away from the mess. There was all this chaos, and I fell on the ice, and my hand still hurts." She bent her lovely wrist. "It was so embarrassing! I don't think I can work there. But I found this little hat and accessory shop that was hiring, so I applied there. I think I'll like it. And maybe I could get you a discount on a hat?"

"I would love a discount," he murmured. "I would love a hat." He could barely focus on what she was saying to him. He only knew that he loved the sound of her voice. And the feel of her hands around his.

"And then – Meg is dating a new guy."

"Is she?" he rasped. He definitely wanted to hear all about Megan. He would hear the story of Megan's birth to the present, if Christine wanted to tell it to him.

"Yes. Guess where he's from?"

"Antarctica?"

"Erik, she's not dating a penguin. He's from Japan!"

"Oh, my."

"So Meg is trying to learn Japanese," she continued. "I took a look at her book. It's a lot harder than Spanish. "

"It is," he agreed.

"I mean, all the different characters and the alphabet. It looks so difficult."

Her words and her face were happy. It was her hands that pled with him. He felt them tighten and loosen and tighten again. He felt them say – _Please don't hurt me._

He squeezed them back – _I will never._

A silence fell over them, and he still did not think that he could possibly be this fortunate. She was looking over his room. What was she thinking? Was she changing her mind? _Please…_

"Erik?"

"Yes?" he asked, terrified.

"Can I decorate your home for Christmas?"

He choked in response.

"If I'm going to be here so much during the holidays, I really should get to decorate. It's only fair."

He couldn't speak anymore. He only sat there, gasping ridiculously. Before he could stop her, she was gently removing his mask. She reached up and wiped a tear off his cheek with her thumb. Her eyes sparkled, and she asked, "Are you really that upset about it? It'll just be a few decorations. Maybe a little tree."

"I…I…" He stuttered like an imbecile. "I…I just…I cannot tolerate the smell of pine!" he exclaimed as the tears continued to fall. And there was truth in that. Pine had a very terrible smell, and he could not even smell that well.

"We'll get a fake tree. And I'll make it smell like cinnamon instead."

Then the little game ended. But they had had to play it. Just to prove that all could be nearly as it was before.

But not quite as it was before.

She reached up and wrapped her arms around his neck. Her cheek rested on his shoulder. Somehow, he managed to wind his shaking arms around her. She tightened her hold. For a brief moment, he was able to stop his racing thoughts and simply enjoy the feel of her pressed against him. He buried his face into her hair. He forced his muscles to unwind so that he could lean back with the full weight of her.

He had his best friend back. And that was all he cared about. She was going to visit him. And she would tell him about her day and hold his hands. He would have taken that and been the happiest man alive. Although a part of him was aware that mere friendship would eventually lead to devastating heartbreak, at least he had this moment. At least he had more time with her.

When she leaned back and gazed up at him…then started to tilt toward his face – he was the one who turned his head away. He felt a familiar sting near his heart.

"Erik," she said, breaking him away from the past. She read his thoughts. "Erik, there won't be any pain after this one. I promise."

He stared into her eyes. "Are we friends?" he softly asked. "Is this what friends do?" Misunderstandings had nearly destroyed everything. And he would have no more of them. If they were the sort of friends who kissed (and the young people did have a term for such interactions) he needed to be aware of that.

Her fingers gently massaged his back. "I think we are more than friends, Erik," she replied.

"Christine..."

"I would like to be. I think it's time to be. Does that sound good to you?" She pressed her forehead against his.

"Christine. I - _Christine._ "

"Can I kiss you now?"

He could only nod, as nothing he said would be nearly good enough to describe what was happening right now. She leaned into kiss him, her arms securely around his neck, and it was like the previous time. Warm, gentle, and slow. He tried to kiss her back even though he was an utter wreck by that point. He tried, tilting his head and moving toward her.

This time, he did not have to let her go right afterwards. She gently ended the kiss and rested her head against his shoulder, arms around his narrow midsection. She stayed with him for hours that evening, and he clung to her in a euphoric state, unable to think clearly, attempting to take it all in. They said very little, perhaps because everything had painfully already been said. He let his fingers skim over her hair. He pressed his lips to her forehead and heard her sigh.

She had said there would be no pain. But that could never be entirely true when it came to her. She eventually looked at her phone. "Oh, I'd better go. It's getting late, and I have an exam in the morning." She smiled. "I'll see you Tuesday evening?"

"Yes. Tuesday," he whispered. He loved Tuesday.

"Promise me you'll take care of yourself," she said. He knew she was thinking of the coffin. "Eat vegetables. And exercise. Floss. All that."

"I promise to floss. Does canned sauce count as a vegetable? I think someone said it did."

"Erik! I'm going to bring you a meal next time. And we're taking a walk."

It was not only a second chance. It was a second life. And he wondered – _How can I ever let her leave here again, when she is this wonderful?_

But, of course, he let her leave. Because now he had everything in the universe to lose. And if he lost it again…if he hurt her again, he deserved to die alone down here, with the subway rats feeding off his corpse.

He did spend the next day lying on the living room floor and staring at the ceiling. He did not even have to hug Christine's shirt, as her scent was all over his clothing. He raised his arm in the air once. Did that count as exercise?

Nothing changed dramatically at first, which was likely for the better, as his mind was spinning in the most delightful of ways. She approached to kiss him when she arrived. And then, holding his hands, she told him the dark tale of the shoplifter at the hat store. "He tried to hide one of our felt hats under his own baseball cap. I mean, you could completely tell because he had this really tall baseball hat with a black bottom! What was he thinking? That we wouldn't notice? It made no sense, Erik."

"It does not," he agreed. "When I…I mean, _if_ I were going to steal a hat, I would wear a hat of the same type."

"Exactly!"

He helped her edit a paper, and then they went for a walk around the block. She bought him a carton of Chinese food with extra broccoli. She kissed him again before she left.

Sometimes they would go for drives, such as when she wanted to see Christmas lights. Sometimes she wanted to cook, as she liked his bigger kitchen and complex utensils. She made an apple pie and chocolate chip cookies. Sometimes they returned to their true roots, and he would play the piano for her, or she would sing for him. She was more detailed with her stories, as she no longer had to hide her life. She said her next-door neighbor was too noisy with his drums. "I mean, I love music. But it's not like I make him listen to me sing all the time!" Or she told him about a stray cat that she had befriended and fed over the last year – "I've started letting him in at night because I don't want him to freeze. I hope the landlord doesn't find out. I named him Mr. Cuddles because he's very fluffy. Like he's nothing but fur with eyes."

"Oh, dear God. Christine, you can bring him here if necessary. But I am not calling him that!"

"Well, then what would you call him?" she asked, crossing her arms.

"Something much more dignified."

"Like Professor Cuddles? That cat is so vigilant. Like, he just sits up on my couch, watching me all day with his tail twitching."

"That sounds rather unsettling."

"No. It's funny. And I think I've figured out his breed," she said with satisfaction. "He's really an amazing find."

"And what is that?"

"A Persian!"

"Oh my." Well, if he had to share Christine with a meddlesome Persian cat, he supposed that he could handle it.

And then there were more changes.

She taught him new ways to kiss. And she taught him that people could engage in kissing for long periods of time. And in different positions. "Are you okay with this?" she softly asked as she leaned over him on the couch, probably because he was paralyzed.

 _Okay with this_ was not really the right description for this. _Okay with this_ was the right description for her redecorating his shelves or asking if she could put flower-scented hand soap in his bathroom. He hoarsely replied, "Yes. I am fine." And he knew that, at the eventual risk of a complete disaster, he had to tell her, "I simply have never…" Intense and burning shame overcame him. Hollywood had made an entire comedy film about a forty-year-old virgin, and he was past that wretched point.

"Oh." To his utter relief, she didn't overwhelm him with pity. "Well, here. You can put your hands here." She gently adjusted his hands around her hips and waist. "And here. Does that feel good?"

 _Good_ was not really the right word either. _Good_ could be used to describe her rich chocolate brownies. Or the nice black hat she had bought him. "Yes," he choked.

She added, "And you can move your hands, too, if you want." She leaned in again to kiss him.

He had to interrupt - "But what if I touch something that I am not supposed to, and you become angry?" He wondered if it was possible for his death's skin to turn as red as it felt.

There were no words to describe the feeling of her smiling against his cheek. She whispered, "I'll tell you if I don't like anything, but I won't get angry. I'm not very worried about that, Erik. I want you to touch me."

"Oh…" He learned quickly how all these things worked. And, if he had embarrassing questions, the Internet was always there to assist.

So there were wonderful changes. Because she wanted them. She wanted more. And he could only drown in the bliss of it all.

Except that -

Long ago, he had always thought it would be much easier to give her freedom once she gave him what he yearned for.

But that was not entirely true.

In some ways, it _was_ easier to let her leave, knowing that she would always come back with smiles and kisses. In other ways, he missed her more than ever when she was gone. Thoughts of losing her still crept into mind and made him want to do unwholesome things. He resisted the urges. He reminded himself of what was at risk. He even climbed into the coffin, closed the lid, and pretended that he was dying alone and with no Christine – and that did the trick. He gave himself a pep talk. _Erik, if you do not stop being an idiot, I will put YOUR head in the nutcracker! And trust me, you fool, no one will miss your ugly head!_

The truth was - he would always have somewhat of a mess in his mind when it came to Christine Daae. Because she was everything. She was his love. She was friendship and warmth. She was kindness and company. She was his muse. She was his teacher when it came to social interactions. And she was now becoming his first taste of physical pleasure. How could he not be obsessed with her when she was absolutely everything to him? He would always want to follow her and be with her. And to hurt those who hurt her.

He could not completely fix his head. Because he had seen too much, felt too much, been hurt too much, and hurt others too much.

But - he _could_ repair his actions. He could choose not to follow her or to make accusations and demands. And he could certainly choose not to put young men into head-crushing devices. He had been doing this for the last eight months. He kept his promise to her.

She decorated his home, and he did not protest. Honestly, he would have let her adorn it with pink bunnies and unicorns if that had pleased her. She put up a small plastic tree and decorated it with red and silver bulbs and tinsel. She added reindeer figurines and a snow globe that contained a house in winter. Stuffed Santas. Candles of various colors. A wreath. He noticed there were no nutcracker figurines. He never asked whether this was intentional.

They rarely discussed either night – the horrible night or the night of their conversation. There was a silent agreement to begin again, to not hold the past against each other, and he was forever grateful for it. Especially when a day in December arrived.

One year since that day. One year since he had freed her and the boy.

Did she know what day it was?

She had to know. It had to be a permanent scar on her mind. But she still came to see him that evening.

Her kisses felt especially wonderful. And he murmured into her ear, "I am so happy that you are here."

"Me, too," she said, momentarily closing her lovely blue eyes.

He would say nothing else about it. "Tell me about your day," he stated.

As always, she led him to the couch by both hands. "Okay, so Meg and her boyfriend got in a fight over where to spend the holidays together."

"Oh, no!"

"Yep. He wants to spend it with his siblings, who live in California. And she wants to spend it with her parents. Meg said that you and I were lucky because we didn't have to fight about that. I mean, she doesn't know a lot about you. Just that you don't have family either."

"What did you say?" he asked.

"I didn't say anything. She was basically saying that we're lucky because we don't have family. That's kind of messed up. You and I are like orphans! But Meg didn't mean to be rude. She just says things without thinking."

"Ah. Well, she sounds absolutely lovely."

"Yes. She's quirky. Maybe you can meet her someday." Christine squeezed his hand and then stood to warm up a piece of pie in his microwave. He was going to warn her that he did not really know how to 'meet people.' At least not in a way where the conversation didn't begin with a threat. But perhaps Christine could give him lessons in introductions.

She returned and set her pie on the coffee table. She lit a candle and watered the poinsettias. She came back to sit with him, enjoying her piece of pie with ice cream.

And then he smelled something.

And it was not the wonderful scent of Christine.

"Christine, what is that odor?"

She sniffed the air. "Oh no!" She hopped up. "It was a brown candle. It was supposed to smell like gingerbread. It said gingerbread on the label! I'm sorry!"

His home was overwhelmed by the scent of pine.

And he knew that, if he continued to be good, the next year would bring the most exquisite sorts of torture. She would make him ache in ways that he could not even imagine. Every time she left, he would count the hours until she came back. No matter what she did, he would only want more of it.

She blew out the candle and lit another one. "There," she said, coming back to sit on the couch with him. "That one is definitely gingerbread. Just pretend it's a gingerbread house in a pine forest for a little while, okay?"

He forgot that his mask was not on and grinned widely, and he must have looked very frightening. Like a laughing Grim Reaper. Or a squashed jack-o'-lantern.

Before he could turn away from her, she tilted her head and said, "You don't seem that unhappy about it. Actually, I don't think I've ever seen you smile." She blinked. "Maybe I should always make it smell like pine. So you'll smile more." She kissed his cheek and thankfully turned back around before she could see the single tear drip down his cheek. She would have asked what was wrong.

He was not quite ready to explain all the events of his life to her, to give her a further understanding of why he was the way he was.

Perhaps someday. Perhaps soon. But not that fragile night when memories flickered like shadows in every corner.

That night, after decades of avoiding it, all he wanted to do was smile.

 _ **The End**_


End file.
